revisions
by crearealidad
Summary: He's supposed to be the writer, but she's the one who keeps re-writing their history – making up for all those times they didn't talk with short, simple sentences that tell him everything.


This fic was written for vacationthon over on LJ. Thank you to sadpie LJ for the prompt, which of course was Castle/Beckett with skinny dipping smut. I had a lot of fun writing it. Hopefully this isn't overly angsty and I promise, no character death here. Also thank you to jaune_chat LJ for betaing this for me so quickly.

In addition to the prompt, this was also inspired by the spoken word poem "Flockprinter" by Buddy Wakefield. [Excerpts taken from the poem as transcribed on his website (put . in place of the question marks) www?buddywakefield?com/tour/journalearlyarchives/000055?php]

* * *

_You have been a long time comin'  
and the clouds have rolled You in slowly.  
But I ain't mad at the upshot sky.  
Rain,  
it's my lucky number.  
It's the author of release._

_-_from _Flockprinter _by Buddy Wakefield

She draws him to the shore of the lake their first night at the cabin with a soft smile from under lowered lashes and a nearly whispered _please._ Even if she hadn't already slipped into that shimmering navy bikini with a huge fuzzy white beach towel tucked under her arms, he could never have denied that little plea. He still can't even imagine a time coming when everything about her, about _them,_ didn't sparkle and glimmer with newness and wonder. If Kate Beckett wanted to take a swim in the wooded mountain lake on a fifty-degree evening, she needn't ask twice.

It's not until he's in his swim trunks, kneeling down with goosebumps already tickling his forearms to dip a tentative hand into the water that he begins to question her sanity. He leaps back from the shore, shaking the icy liquid from his skin, the cold still biting at his extremities. "Cold! Cold!" he yelps, spinning around only to find that she's already dropped her towel and is toeing her way into the offending water with only a sharp intake of breath giving away her discomfort.

"C'mon, Castle, don't be a baby," she calls without looking back. She's already waist deep and her bikini is blending into the black and blue night leaving him only the soft silvery expanse of her back and shoulders to locate her with. He's writing poetry in his head about her beauty and the water and the night when she suddenly gives a little kick and flips down under the surface. Her splash hits him and he takes another step back, calling out to her.

"Kate," he whines, "Maybe we should wait until morning, or even better, afternoon. You know lots of sunshine and heat and-"

She bobs up from beneath, water clinging to every curve, silencing whatever else he'd been rambling about. Once she's sluiced the water from her hair and gasped in a little breath, her lips turn up with that playful glint he's still learning is meant for him and gives him a wave. "If you don't join me, I'll just have to splash you. You're getting wet either way; you might as well enjoy it."

The threat hung in the air and he glances back towards the cabin just once before dropping his own towel next to hers and takes in a determined breath. Jaw clenched and eyes squinted nearly shut, he tiptoes up to the water's edge, takes one more breath and launches himself outward; half belly-flopping into the frigid lake with a few staggered steps. Letting out a yelp, he reaches for her as he sinks in up to his shoulders, pushing her down under the water.

But she's quick and before he can dunk her crown beneath the surface, she spins and presses her feet against his thighs, launching herself away from him with a rough kick. He topples backward as she paddles out, her laughter echoing across the landscape between sputtered breaths.

"Beckett," he whines as he regains his footing, instinctively wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to stave off the encroaching cold. She's almost thirty feet out now and he can barely see her over the rippling water, but he's certain she's rolling her eyes as she sighs and starts paddling back his way.

"You're the one that tried to drown me," she scolds, stopping to tread water just beyond his arm's reach.

"Seriously?" Hunching forward, he hugs himself tighter. "You want to tell me now why it was so important that we take a dip in the ice tank? The cold and I? Not exactly on speaking terms lately, you know."

She doesn't answer, of course. Just smiles once more, the moonlight glinting off her cheekbones, and then slips under once more. Sighing, he scans the surface, watching the movement of the waves to follow her path. When she finally surfaces, she's right in front of him, so close he can feel the radiating warmth of her even if the lake has washed away her familiar scent. She's all dripping curls and shadowed features, her breath casting swirls of steam against his bare chest. Reaching out, his hand finds her bare skin beneath the black and silver ripples of water; she feels like fire. She burns his fingertips with flickering silver flames that spread outward from her body, billowing in the rippling blackness. Never mind that he's shivering and his jaw is clenching to prevent his teeth from chattering, he has Kate. She'll keep him warm.

He's forgotten his objections and indignation for the moment because this feels like the moment she cuffed him against the bar at his own book signing all over again. She's Superwoman. A goddess. A dangerous beauty that triggers something in his brain to short circuit and pay attention to this woman that makes frigid water feel like stepping into a wood stove.

His hand stutters along her velvet skin, quickly seeking and capturing the uninterrupted expanse of her lean torso, molding his fingers along the curve between her ribs and her hips, aware of the mischievous grin twinkling in her eye. But it isn't until she's grabbing his wrist, pushing it back and shoving a wad of slick fabric into his palm that he fully appreciates the situation he's in.

"Kate…?" Her name comes out like a half-strangled gasp more than a question.

It's dark and they're alone but still this is _her place_ and his eyes are darting up and down along the shore line searching for signs of light, people, movement - each flickering of the night sky against the inky water making his pulse catch for half a breath. _Anyone_ could be out there – it's not like he's met the neighbors. He doesn't even know if there are any but there _could be_ and he's holding Kate Beckett's bikini in his slightly trembling fist.

Her lips part to allow that grin to widen even more as his free hand sweeps her damp curls back off of her shoulders to reveal only soft – so soft – wet skin with no trace of the dark blue bikini which had been stretched across her collarbone only minutes earlier. She's translucent, lines of muscles and bluish veins exposed and he can't stop following the glimmer of liquid heat along her skin.

As a result, he's still processing, distracted, and trying to remember to breathe when she kisses him, smiling even against his lips and still so warm, that he imagines steam rising up from the porcelain swell of her breasts as they seem to float at the water's surface. Her abundance of sparkling heat is enticing and he gives in easily, stepping into her glow, feeling it seep into him as the icy water swirls out of their way so that he can fully connect. He's so caught up in the press of her wet skin and the crackling intensity of her presence that she completely shocks him when she cants her head back just enough to allow him to catch the whisper of her trembling lips against his as she breathes out a whispered plea, "So cold… Castle… Warm me up…"

Each word gusts against his lips like steam – he thinks more soothing chamomile tea rather than her usual coffee scented heat- and it's completely confusing his senses because he swears she just said she was cold. His hands, however, seem to understand and toss the wet bunch of fabric towards the shore so that they can reach for her – flattening her against his chest and his erection, so tight he can feel her hammering heart and stuttering breath sparking against him. Her mouth comes back then, heavy inhalations washing out the sounds of creaking trees and babbling water rippling against the rocky shore, and he just hopes he's doing this right. They're both shaking and it must be the pressure building, seeping, waiting for release because he's forgotten about the cold.

Her hot little hand is scalding his thigh, scraping its way up until it's between them – grasping his erection through his shorts in tight, slippery strokes to set him ablaze. Then she thrusts her jaw against his in her effort to glide her tongue along the roof of his mouth and his senses melt down. Her groan sounds like 'more' and his hands obey her request on instinct – sweeping down over her ass to cup her, lifts her until she's hooked around his neck and his waist and she's molten magma melting and burning him in her wake.

She's wriggling against him; head thrown back in her effort and his mouth reaches for her throat, sucking at the water droplets and nudging his nose into her wet curls. Then her feet are on his thighs, toes curling and thrusting and pressing his arousal tighter into her heat as she manages to drag his swim trunks down to his knees. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's picturing her as part monkey or perhaps an octopus but it's only a flash as she settles back against him, reigniting the furnace.

His own growl of excitement echoes across the mountain lake as her heated center settles against him, slick with the heavier wetness of her own arousal. He's still not entirely keeping up, just responding on instincts that fortunately run stronger than his shock that Kate still keeps wanting him. Three weeks of this fiery passionate woman and still his awe and disbelief that she is his refuses to abate.

When she shifts, nearly toppling him back as she aligns them until she's sinking down on him, sheathing him in her tight, hot body, he can only hold on tighter and follow the tilting rocking rotation of her chin with his mouth. His eyes refuse to open as he struggles to keep up with the flashes of movement as she creates the rhythm between them – she must realize that this point he's doing good to keep touching her and stay on his feet and not just explode with electric sensation as her body scorches him.

She's lava. Fire. A white hot sparkler snapping against his skin as she tenses, tugging harder at his neck as she gets close – so close - with her fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his face up to her questing lips. Her kiss is tight and smothering, choking off her gasping moans as she bites and sucks his air from his mouth.

As she comes, he feels her rhythm break, hips pressing and grinding tightly against him until he's joining her.

They're echoing in their watery valley – the sound of curses and names muttered between breaths reverberates against the trees, the mountains, and, he romanticizes, against the clear starry sky. When she lowers herself, cheek to his chest, she feels like she's melting – glittered in condensation and so cool to his touch.

Blinking, he manages to open his eyes and is suddenly aware of just how rapidly the warmth is fading as he takes in her too pink cheeks and almost-blue stained lips, fear-filled memories threatening to unfurl in his writer's imagination. He has her hand in an instant, ready to drag her to shore. But she refuses to budge, pulling him back with her always surprising strength, softening the move with a kiss against his sternum. "The cold… it reminds me of you now… after everything that's happened," she murmurs, apparently as aware of his concerns as if he had spoken them aloud.

The kisses across his chest continue, trailing his collarbone – the heat rapidly waning to a gentle glow.

"Reminds me of how you save me."

The words are too wistful and hitched with shivers and catch on his heart mid-breath. Those beautiful eyes are wide, dark, and misty – and it's too much. Her openness here – physical and emotional – rubs at his still raw nerves, overwhelming his senses. He's supposed to be the writer, but she's the one who keeps re-writing their history – making up for all those times they didn't talk with short, simple sentences that tell him _everything._

It's not until she suddenly gives him a shove with her fingertips that he realizes that he still hasn't replied to her statement. That they're still standing in the icy lake in the middle of the night in upstate New York and she's _naked. _And frowning at him.

"Castle?" He tenses immediately at her scolding tone and meets her eye. "I said we should probably head in. Unless of course you feel the need to be a more-than-mildly-hypothermic human popsicle."

That's right. The blue lips and translucent skin and trembling fingers come back to him as she launches herself towards the shore, sloshing cascades of icy water in his direction. By the time he's managed to pull up his swim trunks that are now tangled around his ankles, she's on dry land, wrapping herself in a towel, watching him.

When he gets to her, she wraps his towel around him, securing it with an arm around his waist – half hug, half belt. "Time to warm you up," she teases, checking her hip against his as they step off towards the cabin.

_Even now,  
where the assignment is to live without a destination,  
I end up with You and the rain, released.  
Both,  
flockprinting stars  
between me and the beast._

-from _Flockprinter _by Buddy Wakefield


End file.
